by Ian Rankin
This disguise – fine for the streets around Greyfriars – seemed less appropriate for the bar of the G&V hotel on George IV Bridge, so as soon as he entered, he shed coat, scarf and hat and wrapped the coat around the bag. But then he had another idea. At reception, he enquired about a room. Yes, there was a vacancy. He paid by credit card and headed upstairs. The room was fine. He deposited the bundle there and went back down to
the bar, checking that his guest had not yet turned up. He sat in a corner, facing the door to the street. A couple of minutes after his Bloody Mary arrived, Darryl Christie walked in. He wore a suit and open-necked shirt and seemed unconcerned by the outside world’s plummeting temperature.
Christie spotted Cafferty immediately, but kept his distance as he assessed the situation. Cafferty had, as promised, come alone. The other drinkers looked to pose no threat at all.
Christie gave the briefest of nods in Cafferty’s direction, took out a phone and tapped in a message – presumably to a man parked outside, a man primed to intervene if his boss sensed trouble.
Finally he approached the table. Rather than stand up, Cafferty lifted an olive from the bowl in front of him and popped it into his mouth. Christie played with his chair before sitting down, angling it so that he had at least a partial view of what might be happening behind him.
‘I did say there’d be no funny business,’ Cafferty reminded him.
‘Maybe we have different senses of humour.’ A waiter was hovering. Christie ordered a dirty martini.
‘What the hell’s that?’ Cafferty asked, looking bemused.
‘For research purposes. My barman tells me he makes the best in the city – I like to keep testing him.’
‘I forgot you had a hotel.’
‘No you didn’t. And by the way, the drinks would have been gratis if we’d met there.’
‘I thought neutral ground was best. How have you been, Darryl? You don’t look like you’re eating enough.’ Cafferty pushed the olive bowl towards him.
‘ You look old,’ Christie countered.
‘That’s because I am. But I’m wise, too.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘I know, for example, what happened at the Gimlet.’
‘The Gimlet’s nothing to do with me these days.’
‘I know someone else runs it, but that’s not quite the same thing.’ Cafferty laid his drink’s straw aside, along with the hunk of celery, and supped from the lip of the glass. ‘Besides which, when Dennis Stark pays a visit, who else is Davie Dunn going to turn to?’
‘You brought me here so you can gloat?’
‘Far from it, Darryl. The way the Starks are going, they’re riling the whole city – my friends as well as yours.’
‘I thought your friends were all headstones.’
‘Not quite.’
‘So what are you saying?’
‘I’m saying I’m not on Joe Stark’s side.’
‘Is that right?’
‘In fact, there’s a chance I’m on their hit list, same as you seem to be – maybe even more so.’ Cafferty paused as Christie’s drink arrived. There wasn’t much of it, which usually, in Cafferty’s experience, made it lethal. Christie took a sip. ‘How does it measure up?’
But Christie just shrugged and placed the glass on the table.
‘You’ve heard about the notes?’ Cafferty asked.
‘Notes?’
‘One went to Lord Minton, just before he was killed.’
‘Front-page news.’ Christie nodded.
‘Another came to me.’ He had Christie’s full attention now.
‘I’d show it to you, but the police took it for testing.’
‘You went to the cops? Christie sounded disbelieving.
‘Actually I went to Rebus – not quite the same thing. But he passed it along. Ask him if you don’t believe me. And if you’re not minded to believe him, try Siobhan Clarke.’
‘Okay, so you got a note.’
‘I’ve been wondering if the Starks sent it, along with the bullet that came a few days later.’
Christie sat silently for fifteen seconds, deep in thought.
‘Doesn’t sound their style,’ he concluded.
‘Maybe.’
‘How do you connect to this guy Minton?’
‘He was a prosecutor. Not that he ever worked a trial involving me or one of mine, not that I can find. You ever met him?’
‘No.’
Cafferty shrugged and lifted his glass again.
‘I’m still not sure why you’re telling me any of this,’
Christie said.
‘I just thought you might be concerned for my welfare.’
Cafferty waited for Christie to realise he was joking. The younger man did eventually manage half a smile. ‘But the truth is,’ Cafferty continued, ‘I can see a time coming when you might need me and I might need you.’
‘To kick the Starks out of town?’
‘Something like that.’
‘And what do you bring to that particular fight?’ Christie stared hard at him. It was a serious question.
‘Whatever you might feel you need.’
‘They were going to stick a knife into Davie Dunn.’
‘And Chick Carpenter ended up in hospital,’ Cafferty agreed.
‘With you or without you, I’m having them.’
‘You know why they’re here?’
‘Supposedly looking for a trucker and some missing merch.’
‘You’re not convinced?’
‘I’m convinced they’re asking.’ Christie had finished his drink in three swallows.
‘Want another?’ Cafferty asked. Christie shook his head.
‘I need to be elsewhere.’ He peered at Cafferty. ‘Who do you really think took that shot at you?’
‘I’ll admit you were on the list for a while.’
‘And now?’
‘It’s been a long time since I pissed anyone off – apart from you, obviously.’
‘So if it’s a grudge, they’ve been nurturing it?’ Christie was rising to his feet and sending another text, presumably to the same destination as before. ‘All those bodies you’ve buried down the years, all those families left wondering . . .’
‘Business like ours, Darryl, it’s dog-eat-dog.’ Cafferty was standing now too.
‘Dog-eat-dog,’ Christie agreed. He looked around for their waiter.
‘I’ve got these,’ Cafferty assured him. A car was drawing up outside. Cafferty recognised the white Range Rover Evoque.
‘Your carriage awaits.’ He extended his hand. The two men shook. ‘I’d been told you had a swagger to you these days,’
Cafferty commented, releasing his grip. ‘But attitude will only take you so far. When I was your age, I was getting dirty, and to be honest, I’m still that way inclined.’ He paused, locking eyes with the younger man. ‘Whereas you . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘All I can really see is a shiny fucking suit.’ Cafferty shrugged and offered a thin smile. ‘No offence, son.’
Christie’s face grew thunderous. ‘See you around,’ he snarled, stalking towards the exit. Still smiling, Cafferty signalled for the bill. He signed for it, then walked towards the lift, taking out the keycard to his room, making sure it was nice and visible. He knew the white car was still outside, probably with the window nearest the hotel lowered so its occupants could get a better view. They would think they knew where to find Cafferty should they want him.
Let them think.
Let them share, if it came to that.
He stayed half an hour in the room on the second floor, using the toilet and shower, the latter only because of the quality of towels in the bathroom – better than those in his Quartermile flat. Descending in coat and hat, he saw that the car was long gone. He pulled the brim down low and stepped out into the evening. He had more digging to do on the internet.
And Scotch broth for his supper.
Malcolm Fox was sitting in his car out
side his father’s care home. He had swallowed half a dozen painkillers and was feeling both numb and queasy. His plan had been to visit Mitch just to sit by his bed and wait for him to ask how he’d come by the bruises.
‘In the line of duty.’
Yes, that was what he’d have said – or something along those lines.
Proper police work, Dad, the kind you always say I’d be rubbish at.
But then he would have fed Mitch an obvious comeback: Those bruises prove I was right . . .
So instead of the bedside vigil, he was staying in the car, hands resting on the steering wheel, head beginning to thrum again. He reckoned it was the caffeine in the tablets, mixed with adrenalin – the aftershock from his beating. He had been thumped before, but not for some time. Last fight he’d almost been in had been with Rebus a year or so back, until they’d realised how ridiculously it would have played out. He checked the damage in the rear-view mirror. He couldn’t believe he’d been about to barge in on his father like a kid wanting sympathy for a grazed knee. After a fight one time at school, all Mitch had wanted to know was how much damage Malcolm had managed to inflict on his opponent. Sensing this, Malcolm had brought his imagination into play, until he could see that his father had stopped believing.
All fun and games, eh? he told himself now, studying his reflection. Picking up his phone, he saw that the incoming call was from Siobhan again. He was worried she’d be requesting a meet-up, and he wasn’t quite ready for her sympathy. No, it was his father’s sour realism he’d reached out for – and part of him still wanted it. Instead of which, he turned the key in the ignition and decided to drive himself home to his bed.
His bed – and another bag of frozen peas.
DAY FIVE
Seventeen
It was still dark when Rebus’s phone woke him. He wrestled with it while trying to switch on the bedside lamp.
‘Hello?’
‘John, it’s Siobhan.’
‘You’re making a habit of this – what time is it?’
‘Almost six. You need to come down to Leith.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Another shooting. Target wasn’t so lucky this time.’
‘Who?’
‘Dennis Stark.’
Rebus had swung his legs out from beneath the duvet, feet touching the floor. ‘Dead?’ he asked.
‘Dead,’ Siobhan Clarke confirmed.
An alley off Constitution Street. The main road had been cordoned, officers in high-vis jackets detouring traffic and pedestrians. Mostly black cabs and shift workers, the rush hour still some way off. The media were there too, along with a few ghouls, who craned their necks, trying to get a better look.
Dennis Stark’s body had been removed. The alley was just that: high walls, strewn rubbish and a couple of industrial-sized
bins, one reinforced door providing the back entrance to an office. No CCTV, minimal street lighting. The scene of crime team were suited up and busy. A bleary-looking James Page was rubbing his gloved hands together as he gathered information from a SOCO. Rebus caught Siobhan Clarke’s eye and she walked towards him, stony-faced and professional in protective overalls, hood and overshoes.
‘They weren’t going to let me through,’ Rebus said, nodding in the direction of the cordon. ‘Thought I was going to have to phone you to come get me.’
‘The call came from one of the nearby flats,’ Clarke informed him, sliding her face mask down to her throat. ‘Three separate calls, actually, which is probably why the patrol took it seriously. Report of what sounded like a single gunshot. One of the callers was ex-army, said he knew for a fact that was what he’d heard. Calls came in at around three forty-five, and by four fifteen the body had been found.’ She gestured towards the relevant spot. ‘Slumped against the wall. Gunshot wound to the chest.’
‘Nine mil?’
‘Not sure yet.’
‘Any note?’
‘Same wording as before.’
Rebus puffed out his cheeks. ‘Does Joe Stark know?’
‘Someone was due to call Glasgow.’
‘And Dennis’s men?’
‘We’ve got officers at the guest house. They’ll be taken in for questioning.’
‘How far is the guest house from here?’
‘It’s on Leith Links.’
‘A two-minute walk, then – and with Leith police station halfway between the two.’
‘But no one on duty that time of night.’
Rebus thought for a moment. ‘This is bad, Siobhan.’
‘I know.’
‘Lord Minton, Cafferty, and now Dennis Stark.’
‘We just need to find the connection.’
‘What about Compston? Does he know?’
‘Haven’t seen him.’
‘His team are supposed to be on the Starks twenty-four/seven.’
‘I know, and I’m just about to break the news to Page.’ She paused. ‘While I do that, I thought you could have a word with Compston.’
‘Why not Malcolm?’
‘He’s not answering his phone.’
‘Okay, leave it with me.’ Rebus watched the SOCOs as they shone their torches over the ground. ‘Found the bullet yet?’
‘No.’
‘Still in the body, maybe?’
‘Entry and exit wounds, according to the doc.’
‘So the bullet’s here somewhere?’
‘It either is or it isn’t.’
‘Our shooter seems a bit more confident, doesn’t he? Didn’t want to get too close to Cafferty, yet he’s no qualms about coming face to face with Dennis Stark.’
Clarke nodded her agreement.
‘And what was Stark doing here anyway?’
‘Right now your guess is as good as mine.’
Page called Clarke’s name. She turned away from Rebus and marched towards him, pulling the mask back up. Rebus took his
phone out and called Fox’s mobile and home numbers. No answer. He took one last long look at the alley before heading back towards the cordon and his car.
Traffic was light as he drove across town to Oxgangs. He rang Fox’s doorbell and then banged the door with his fist a couple of times for good measure. Moments later, he heard movement, and the door cracked open a couple of inches. Fox was dressed in a pair of dark blue pyjamas, groggy from sleep.
‘Don’t tell me you’re here to sell me a dog?’ he muttered.
‘What the hell happened to you?’ Rebus said, noticing Fox’s face.
‘I tried breaking up a fight outside the Gimlet.’
‘The Starks?’ Rebus guessed. ‘And you just waded in?’
‘Can we maybe discuss this in daylight hours?’ Fox was blinking his eyes into focus as he assessed his bruises with the tips of his fingers.
‘You got an alibi for quarter to four?’
‘What am I supposed to have done?’
‘That’s pretty much the exact time someone shot and killed Dennis Stark.’
‘Christ,’ Fox said.
‘As you say,’ Rebus concurred.
While Fox was washing and getting dressed, Rebus made them a cafetière of coffee. Fox walked into the kitchen knotting his tie. He had obviously been thinking.
‘Cafferty and Christie, Chick Carpenter and Davie Dunn – they’ll all have to be questioned.’ He accepted the mug from Rebus and took a slurp. ‘And what about Operation Junior?’
‘That’s why I’m here. No one’s seen or heard from Compston and his crew – you got a number for them?’
‘Should probably be Doug Maxtone actually – we tell Maxtone, he tells Compston.’
‘Where’s the fun in that?’
‘Fun?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I suppose I do.’
‘There was a note left with Dennis.’
Fox’s eyes widened above the rim of his mug. ‘Same message?’
‘Same message.’
‘So it’s our guy then, rather than any o
f those names I mentioned.’
‘They all had reason to want Dennis punished – we’ll still need to talk to them.’
‘Joe Stark is going to be incandescent.’
‘I’d think.’
‘And why didn’t Dennis’s men stop it happening?’
‘We need to find that out.’ Rebus paused. ‘You discovered who the mole is yet?’
‘What makes you think I’m interested?’
Rebus smiled. ‘The way you reacted when Alec Bell told us.
You’re a born spy, Malcolm – it’s why you were so well suited to Complaints. I got the notion you’d want to test yourself.’
‘Well, it so happens . . .’
‘Go on then, impress me.’
‘Jackie Dyson’s the clear favourite.’
‘And he didn’t step in when you were getting that kicking?’
‘He’s the one who doled it out.’
‘Knowing you’re a cop?’
Fox shook his head.
‘So is the operation compromised?’
Fox shook his head again. ‘I didn’t identify myself at any point.’ He had broken open a fresh packet of paracetamol and was readying to swallow a couple.
‘Still probably not Compston’s star pupil, unless he doesn’t know?’
‘He knows.’
‘So maybe I should be the one to phone him?’
Fox considered this. ‘Maybe you should.’ He got busy with his own phone, reeling off Compston’s number for Rebus.
‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘I woke up in hospital and the owner of the Gimlet was there, ready to thank me for stepping in. He’d brought along a mate of his . . .’
‘Darryl Christie?’
‘Who worked out straight away that it was no accident I was in the area.’
‘And does Ricky Compston know about that?’ Rebus watched as Fox nodded. ‘Yet I’m the one everybody says is a troublemaker. Sounds as if you could teach me a thing or two.’
